


The Seduction of Dreams

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xander has some confusing dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is complete and I'll post daily.  Based on the [](http://angst-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://angst-bingo.livejournal.com/)  prompt "diaries and journals." Many thanks to my ever-wonderful beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , who also came up with the title!

_**The Seduction of Dreams (1/3)**_  
 **Title:** The Seduction of Dreams  
 **Chapter:** 1 of 3  
 **Characters:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander has some confusing dreams.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete and I'll post daily.  Based on the [](http://angst-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://angst-bingo.livejournal.com/)   prompt "diaries and journals." Many thanks to my ever-wonderful beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  , who also came up with the title!

 **  
The Seduction of Dreams   
**

 

 **  
Part One: Season Seven   
**

The dreams were intense and dark—like movies filmed in a cave by candlelight—and he couldn’t make out the face of the other person. Couldn’t make out the face, and the other never spoke. Maybe couldn’t speak, because Xander himself couldn’t manage more than a grunt or a moan. All he could do was _feel_ : hardness under him like stone and hardness over him, because the other person was all muscle and bone. No soft curves or pillowy breasts. Just smooth skin and hardness, sometimes pistoning rapidly into Xander’s aching body, leaving Xander open and sore and bleeding a little and desperate for more. Sometimes riding Xander, tight, tight channel gripping Xander’s cock and, Christ, Xander never got enough of that either.

Xander woke from those dreams sticky and sated, his face red with shame even though there was nobody there to see him. He was too old for wet dreams, and he was straight, for God’s sake.

This was normal, he’d tell himself as he showered. He was a red-blooded guy. He used to have sex regularly—well, maybe that wasn’t the right adjective for his amorous adventures with Anya. He used to have sex _frequently_. Very. But then he’d been an asshole and fucked things up, and ever since he’d been going through a prolonged nooky dry spell. On top of that it looked as if they were facing yet another end of the world, and that always got him in the mood. Anya had told him that was normal, too: an instinct to preserve life in the face of death, or something. He and Anya used to do a lot of life preserving. And as for the very masculine nature of the man of his dreams, well, there was undoubtedly something Freudian about that. Xander was symbolically loving himself, maybe. 

Yeah. Sure.

Once he was showered and shaved and dressed, Xander didn’t have to think about it anymore. There was construction from sun-up until sundown, after which he was always bone-weary in a very satisfying way, and then the sessions at Buffy’s or the Bronze, worrying. Wondering what the hell was coming to eat them next. Agonizing over whether they could ever repair their friendship with Willow. All followed up with a few rousing strolls through graveyards and his nightly near-misses of a demony demise.

But when Xander collapsed back into his bed—so exhausted he sort of envied the monsters Buffy had left that night, all peaceful and dead and with no more demands on them—then he’d think about the dreams and wonder whether he was going to have another during his too-brief slumbers. Xander wasn’t sure whether he dreaded the dreams or looked forward to them.

“Hey, you look beat,” Buffy said one night as they trudged home from Restfield.

“Candle. Both ends,” he replied.

She picked up a broken branch from the sidewalk, turned it over in her hands as if she were considering its usefulness as a stake, and then tossed it away. “Is it Anya? ’Cause I know it’s gotta be tough—”

“It’s not Anya,” he said firmly. “That’s over. Done. Finito.”

“You sure? Maybe you guys could pick up the pieces.”

“Buff, I dumped her at the altar, shattered her dreams. And she bonked Spike on camera. No pieces to pick up.”

They walked on in silence for a few blocks.

“So if it’s not Anya, what is it? No denying, either. Something’s up. I can tell.”

“Slayer senses?”

She smiled and hooked an arm through his. “Nope. Just friend who knows you well. C’mon, Xander. What’s the deal?”

“I’ve….” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been having dreams.”

“Nightmares? Well yeah, that’s understandable with the fresh scent of apocalypse in the air again.”

“No, they’re not exactly nightmares.” He looked down, hoping she couldn’t see him blush. “Just…weird. Disturbing.”

“Back in psych class, Professor Walsh said—this was before the Frankenstein and the crazy, when I thought she was just a normal teacher—she said sometimes dreams are a way for our brains to help work out problems. Stuff that’s too tricky to deal with when we’re awake, or maybe too hard to face.”

He stepped over a crack in the sidewalk and nodded. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what kind of mess his subconscious was trying to untangle at night.

Buffy didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. “Walsh said we should keep dream journals. You know, write down our dreams as soon as we wake up. You should try that, Xan.”

“I dunno. I’m not really a Dear Diary kind of guy.”

She shrugged. “Whatever. Might help, though.”

He didn’t answer her. Ten minutes later they were standing in front of Xander’s apartment. In Xander’s world, it was the tough, scary girl who walked the defenseless boy home. She gave him a smile and a thump on the shoulder. “Night, Xan.”

“Night.” He yawned and made his way inside.

He had to shower before he could go to bed—vamp dust and grave dirt and demon goo made for too many loads of laundry otherwise—and he almost nodded off as the water ran through his hair, dripping over his closed eyes. He gave himself a quick rubdown with a towel and stumbled into the bedroom. He collapsed on the mattress, pulled up the blanket, and instantly fell asleep.

This dream began as the others had—underground. But this time, as his dream-self banged a knee against solid marble, he realized he wasn’t in a cave but in a crypt. A huge crypt, all shadowy and strung with spiderwebs, and with flickering torches set into sconces here and there. The flames cast small islands of light, which only made the rest of the place darker and more sinister by comparison. Things moved in that darkness: tiny scuttles and small, shifting sounds. Xander’s heart was beating wildly, his breaths coming shallow and fast. But not out of fear—out of excitement. Expectation.

Something moved behind him very quickly. Xander spun around and was grabbed. Strong, cold hands tightened on his bare shoulders. Bare, because dream-Xander was as naked as his real-life counterpart, skin all goosepimply in the crypt’s chill. And when the hands took hold of him he didn’t struggle. Instead he took a step closer, closing the small space between him and his attacker. He still couldn’t see anything but a faraway torch, the barest silhouette of the other person’s head. 

The other person sighed with satisfaction and loosened his grip on Xander. He slid his hands down to Xander’s biceps, back up again, and then over onto his back. He leaned in close, pressing himself against Xander.

He was naked too, his cock digging into Xander’s hip. He was an inch or two shorter than Xander, more slightly built, but all wiry muscle. His hair was stiff and it tickled Xander’s neck. His skin was like ice. “Pet,” he whispered.

Dream-Xander chuckled. He didn’t have the same blind spots and defense mechanisms as awake-Xander did; he’d known all along who his mysterious lover was. Now he reveled in the feel of Spike against him, the vampire already hard and hungry for him. Xander put his palms on Spike’s ass and pulled him even closer. Spike shuddered and made a strange mewling sound, a sound that made the hairs on the back of Xander’s neck stand up. Made his cock stand up too, so it was digging into Spike’s belly. Xander gnawed gently on Spike’s neck and Spike whimpered again, just as Xander had expected.

“Whattaya want, Spike?” Xander growled, pitching his voice low even though it was just the two of them. “Gotta tell me what you want.”

Spike answered right away. “You. Want _you_ , love. Want you to take me and stuff that lovely cock inside me, want you to fuck me until I can’t walk straight.”

That was exactly what Xander wanted to hear. He slammed into Spike, sending him crashing backwards into the wall. Spike’s head thudded against stone, hard. Xander didn’t care. He attacked Spike’s mouth in a savage kiss, forcing those soft lips open, tasting blood and tobacco, slicing his tongue on a fang so that Spike groaned and tried to suck at the wound. Their hips ground together, the friction wonderful but not nearly enough, and their hands were everywhere, grabbing, smoothing, kneading.

Xander broke away slightly. “I want to see you this time.”

Spike took Xander’s hand and led the way down a dim corridor, past bone-filled alcoves and grotesque statues, until they came to a door made of wide wooden planks, with an arched top and a heavy iron handle. Spike pushed the door. They entered an opulent bedroom, with a huge bed festooned in velvet and silk canopies. A crystal chandelier, glowing with candles, hung from a ceiling that was too high to see. The floors were covered in thick rugs, and embroidered pillows were scattered everywhere.

Xander stood for a moment, admiring the room, until it occurred to him that he should instead be admiring the vampire. And he did, taking in the way Spike’s skin seemed golden in the yellow light, the way his hair and eyes shone, the way his cock jutted proudly from a neat nest of curls. Spike preened under his gaze, turning this way and that so Xander could have a good view of his magnificent backside as well.

But that backside reminded Xander that he was not a patient man, and dreams didn’t last forever. He grabbed Spike’s elbow and tugged him over to a mahogany desk that took up one corner of the room. Xander pushed him down quite roughly, but Spike immediately went with the plan, bending over the wooden expanse and widening his legs, presenting his ass to his lover.

“God,” Xander said out loud, because it was an ass that deserved a little worship. He slapped the muscular cheeks a few times, just because he could, and Spike yelped and wiggled happily. And then, with no further preparation, Xander lined his cock with Spike’s pink little hole and pushed inside.

Spike howled from the pain but pushed back as well, urging Xander in deeper. Xander happily complied, feeling tight muscles gradually loosen—and become a little slick from blood—as he pounded like a jackhammer. “Like that, Spike? You like it like that?”

Spike’s response wasn’t in English, but it sounded affirmative.

“Good,” Xander said. “So good. Fuck, so goddamn tight!” He pulled most of the way out, watching with fascination as his own pink-smeared cock appeared from between Spike’s cheeks. Then he bucked his hips, burying himself balls deep and seeing Spike’s shoulder muscles contract. The nape of Spike’s neck looked so vulnerable, so tender, that Xander couldn’t help himself, he bent down and, hips still moving rapidly, bit Spike just below the hairline. Hard enough to break the skin, so that Xander tasted his lover’s sweet blood.

Spike howled again and climaxed, his orgasm making his insides clamp tight around Xander’s cock, so that Xander came too, crying out against Spike’s smooth, bloodied skin.

***

Xander woke up with a pounding headache and with dried semen making his belly itch. “Oh, fuck,” he said out loud. Stupid dream-Xander. Spike? How _could_ he! 

But at some level, Xander had to admit he’d known all along who his dream lover was. There had been something familiar about the feel of him, about the scent of him.

Xander sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. What did it mean that he was dreaming about gay sex with a vampire? A vampire he hated. Well, Xander pretty much hated all vampires on principle, but with a few it was more personal. Like this one, who’d indirectly caused Xander’s breakup with Cordelia, who’d had sex with Anya, who’d tried to rape Buffy. And then who had disappeared. Good-bye, good riddance. But then he had shown up again, like he just couldn’t get enough of Sunnyhell, only now he had a shiny new soul and a big old case of the crazies.

But why would Xander dream about having sex with him? Maybe it had something to do with Xander’s need to conquer his own demons—but then why Spike and not, say, Anya? Or maybe it was symbolic of Xander’s desire to conquer bad guys. Except then he should have dreamed of staking Spike, not fucking him. Or maybe—

“Shit,” Xander said out loud. Who the hell knew what it meant? Willow might have an explanation, thanks to all those psych classes, but Xander certainly wouldn’t share these details with her, even if they didn’t have the aftermath of the whole Evil Willow Tries to End the World thing to deal with.

Then Xander remembered what Buffy had told him: a dream journal. Sounded…girly. Like something he’d write with a pink feather-topped pen while wearing fuzzy slippers and just before painting his nails. But nobody would ever have to know about the journal but him. And maybe it would help him sort his head out. 

He stood up and padded into the kitchen. Tucked in a drawer was a spiral-bound notebook with a yellow cover. Anya had used the notebook to make lists of preparations for the wedding: cake flavors, seating charts, invitation lists, things like that. Xander had never quite gotten around to throwing it away. With a slight pang, he ripped out the used pages and tossed them in the trash. He found a pen—a black one with an advertisement for an insurance salesman; nothing girly about that—and sat down at the kitchen table. The wooden chair was cold on his bare ass.

It took a long time to write down all the details from his dream. He’d never been much of a writer, and this was the longest string of words he’d scribbled since high school. But he put as much detail into the description as he could, hoping that would help him decipher the message from his subconscious. 

It took him over an hour to make the journal entry. When he was finished, he gave it a quick read-through, changing a small detail here and there. The dream seemed more real all in black and white like that, and that was a little disturbing.Reading the entry didn’t give him any particular insight, either. Well, maybe that would take some time. 

He stood and stretched and began to put the notebook back in the drawer. But that seemed…wrong, somehow. Private stuff like that shouldn’t be shoved in with electric bills and Mr. Coffee manuals and Chinese takeout menus. Xander looked around for a better place to stash the dream journal. He considered shoving it under his mattress, but that reminded him of the Playboys he used to keep there when he was a kid, and despite the explicit nature of his dreams—in fact, because of the explicit nature of his dreams—Xander didn’t want to treat the notebook like a porno mag.

Finally, he tossed the notebook onto the top shelf of his closet, where it could keep company with his collection of Babylon 5 collector’s plates and old comic books. Then he headed for the shower.

***

It wasn’t fair. Xander had already done his bit as vamp-sitter back when Spike was first chipped. But Buffy insisted that the school basement was upping Spike’s lunacy quotient and there was no place else to stash him. None of them wanted him near Dawn, and apparently just letting him manage (or not) on his own was out of the question. That soul made a big difference to Buffy. Xander was afraid to protest too much in case Buffy suspected something more than his usual Spike-aversion, so in the end he had a vampire roommate.

On the one hand, it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Xander was putting in long hours at work and when he arrived home near dusk, Spike was generally emerging from the closet and getting ready to skulk through the night. They’d glance at each other and exchange half-growled greetings and that was about it.

On the other hand, it was horrible. Xander’s disturbing dreams continued, and from the odd glances that Spike threw him now and then, Xander wondered whether he might be calling out the vampire’s name in his sleep. But Spike didn’t actually say anything and Xander wasn’t about to broach the subject.

And then life in Sunnyhell went from bad to worse to apocalypse, and Xander had bigger problems to deal with. The time came when he actually kind of missed the sex-with-Spike dreams, because they were replaced with nightmares involving lost eyes, lost former fiancées, lost cities…just loss.

[Chapter Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/271635.html)   


  



	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** The Seduction of Dreams  
 **Chapter:** 2 of 3  
 **Characters:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander has some confusing dreams.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete and I'll post daily.  Based on the [](http://angst-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://angst-bingo.livejournal.com/)  prompt "diaries and journals." Many thanks to my ever-wonderful beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , who also came up with the title!  
[  
Previous chapters](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=The%20Seduction%20of%20Dreams&filter=all)

 **Part Two: Seven Years Later**

 

Xander knew what a missing eye saw. Usually just blackness, but occasionally flashes of purple and green and red, like fireworks. Only not as much fun because when the missing eye started seeing pretty colors, that meant a massive headache was on its way.

The doctors had explanations—something to do with trauma to what was left of the optic nerve. The doctors said they could cure the problem with surgery. Probably. Nowadays, Xander even had health insurance that would cover the bills, and he’d accumulated enough sick leave that he’d be able to take a few weeks off from work. The firm would be okay—their schedule had slowed lately due to the recession and resulting downturn in construction.

But even though the free light show continued and Xander was guaranteed a splitting migraine once every month or so, he didn’t have the procedure done. He just couldn’t stand the thought of people digging into his head with scalpels, messing around in the empty socket he could barely face in the mirror. Even though he’d been told the risks were small, he worried about something going wrong, about the other eye ending up out of commission. Half-blind was still a million times better than the full monty.

On the bad days, Xander stayed home in bed if he could, the drapes drawn and all the lights off. Willow had sent him an eye mask filled with something lumpy and fragrant; it was red satin on one side and blue fleece on the other, and when he wanted to he could heat it a little in the microwave. He’d drape it over his face and lie very, very still and wait for the waves of pain to go away. Sometimes he couldn’t stay home from work though, and then he’d dry-swallow a lot of ibuprofen and try to get through the day.

The flashing colors had just begun to dance behind Xander’s eyepatch one Thursday afternoon when his boss knocked on the door and entered his office. Xander managed a wan smile. “Hey, Chuck.”

“You look like hell, Xander. Go home.”

“Yeah, soon. Inciardi’s waiting on the estimates for the March Street project and—”

“Inciardi can wait another day. I don’t want you driving with that headache.”

Xander scowled but nodded. Operating a motor vehicle while his skull was being blasted to pieces wasn’t the best plan. He rubbed absently at his temples. “Yeah, okay. Sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it. Anyway, I came in here to invite you to a barbeque on Sunday. I’ve got about half a cow to throw on the grill.”

Despite the incipient pain, Xander licked his lips. “Is Laura gonna make that chocolate cake?”

“She might even make two, if she knows you’re coming.”

“Thanks, Chuck. Sounds great. I’ll bring the beer.” And then a thought struck him. “This isn’t another of your better half’s matchmaking attempts, is it?”

Chuck grinned and ran a hand over the stubble on his scalp. “Laura’s niece is visiting us from St. Louis this weekend.”

“Chuck—”

“She’s a nice girl. Melissa. Just started a graduate program in, uh…sociology? Something like that. She’s cute, too.”

“Well, I don’t know what a nice, cute, brainy girl would want with me. Really, I like the single life. I can leave the toilet seat up.”

Chuck reached over the desk and clapped Xander’s shoulder. “C’mon, Xander. You know Laura’s gotta stick her nose into your private life now and then or she won’t let either of us rest.”

Xander sighed. “Fine. But you owe me one, man.”

After Chuck left, Xander shut down his computer and gathered his papers into a neat stack and stood, grabbing his oversized metal coffee container. There were days he practically mainlined the stuff, even though the doctors said the caffeine wasn’t doing his head any favors. On the way out of the office, Xander waved at a couple of the guys and at the sweet and bubbly receptionist.

When he stepped outside, the glaring sun hit his remaining eye like a hammer. Even with sunglasses, he squinted on the way to his truck. He climbed into the cab, kicking a couple of stray fast food wrappers out of the way, and started the engine. He drove more carefully than usual, mindful of the fact that the colored lights and the budding headache shot his reflexes to hell. He briefly considered a drive-through for something to eat—his cupboards were bare at home—but decided against it. The headaches made him nauseous, and fast food was likely to make an unpleasant repeat appearance later that night.

He made it to his neat little bungalow and smiled at the mail: a postcard Dawn sent from Zurich, a letter from Buffy with a photo of her on a beach in Thailand with her son. He’d received a letter from Willow in Budapest just a few days earlier. His old friends stayed in touch even as they continued to fight the good fight, and he appreciated that. He’d hung up his white hat a few years back, when he decided that the single eye and the fucking headaches made him more of a liability than a help.

He set the mail down on the kitchen counter and chugged a half bottle of water, nice and cold from the fridge. Stay hydrated, the doctors said. He didn’t notice that the liquids really helped, but they didn’t hurt either, so why not. He was willing to grasp at nonsurgical straws. By the time he twisted the clear plastic cap back onto the bottle, the room was beginning to tilt and sway like the deck of a ship during a storm. He set the bottle onto the table—barely noticing that it rolled off, hitting the floor with a clatter—and staggered into his bedroom. His blessedly dark bedroom, with the light-proof drapes he’d installed for occasions just like this, and the cool cotton sheets, and Willow’s eye pillow waiting for him on the nightstand.

Xander kicked off his boots and yanked off his slacks. He pulled his shirt over his head without bothering to unbutton it or noticing where it landed when he tossed it aside. That left him in boxers and an undershirt, and he no longer had the energy to remove those. He simply collapsed backwards onto the mattress, plopped the eye pillow onto his face, and prepared to wait it out.

He couldn’t actually sleep with these headaches, but he could sort of zone out a little. Willow had taught him a meditation technique that helped: he’d think of someplace peaceful, and between the thuds of pain he’d imagine himself back in that place, resting. Napping in a cabana on a Caribbean island maybe, or sitting in a tree house under a leafy green canopy. This afternoon he was surprised to find himself in a library, a very grand one with a high domed ceiling and shelves of ornately carved mahogany. The library had that special hush that libraries did, and he could even smell old paper and leather. He wasn’t exactly the scholarly type, but he found the room serene anyway. He decided there was a painting on the dome, something sort of Renaissance-ish with blue skies and fluffy clouds and chubby cherubs, and lots of gilding around the edges. The wood of the furniture matched the shelves, and the chairs were deeply padded. The floor was patterned marble, and somewhere far away there were soft, shuffling footsteps. But he knew nobody would disturb him; he could stay in the library as long as he wanted.

And then someone knocked on his front door.

Hardly anyone ever knocked on Xander’s door. His friends telephoned and he’d meet them somewhere for a couple beers, maybe catch a movie or something. There were no Girl Scouts in the area and the neighborhood seemed blissfully Jehovah’s Witness-free. Besides, he realized as pulled away the mask and peeled his eyelid open, it was nighttime. The clock read 10:04.

He was going to ignore the knock, but it came again: louder, more insistently. It sounded an awful lot as if whoever was there had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

With a groan and a curse, Xander sat up. The headache had actually begun to recede a little, but it was still bad and walking around was going to make it worse. However, the pounding on the door echoed in his skull; he had to make it stop.

He stumbled out of the bedroom and down the hallway, not bothering to turn on the lights as he went. He knew the way and brightness would be excruciating. It took him a few moments to fumble the locks and fling the door open. “What?!” he demanded, as furiously as a one-eyed, bed-headed man in his underwear could manage.

“You look like a corpse,” answered Spike.

Xander had never actually fainted. He’d lost consciousness before, more than once, but that was after being bashed on the head. In fact, Spike had been a basher once. But Xander had never been so shocked that he blacked out. He didn’t quite faint as he saw the vampire at his door either, but his vision did go alarmingly gray and his knees went so wobbly he had to grab the doorframe to support himself.

“Wha?” he said, or something equally eloquent.

Spike smirked. He was still wearing that stupid black coat, but his hair was different than when Xander had last seen him. It was shorter, curlier, and a light brown color that was actually found in nature. He had on a pair of blue jeans and a faded red t-shirt. “Hello, pet,” he grinned.

Xander made another incoherent choking noise before remembering English. “How? Why?”

“Give us an invite and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“No!” Xander exclaimed. “No! No invitation, no vampires, no—no _you_. I’m hallucinating.”

Spike rolled his eyes and picked up a small piece of concrete that had broken off the top step. Xander had been meaning to fix that. Spike tossed the chunk inside, and it hit Xander’s chest with a solid thump that would have hurt if Xander had been capable of registering pain at that moment. “Can a hallucination do that?” Spike asked.

Xander looked down at the piece of concrete, which had landed between his bare feet. “No,” he admitted.

“So let me in. We can have a lovely chat. Catch up on old times.”

Xander’s poor head was spinning. He had no fucking clue what was going on. Really, the only thing he was very certain of at that moment was that he did not want Spike in his home. He opened his mouth to tell the vampire to go away. But somehow what came out of his mouth was, “Come in, Spike.”

Spike lit up like he’d won the lottery. He came sauntering inside, pushing past Xander and strolling into the living room. He looked around like he might be considering buying the place. “Not bad,” he said. “More than a few steps up from that basement you skulked in.”

“I didn’t skulk. And what the hell—” Xander again found himself at a loss for words. He had so many questions that he didn’t know where to begin. So he did the only thing he could: he stomped into the kitchen and pulled two bottles of Beck’s from the fridge. After opening them, he came into the living room and handed one to Spike, who took it with a mock salute.

It was only as Xander took his first grateful chug that he realized his headache was gone.

Spike sat down on the couch, sprawling comfortably and looking very pleased with himself. Xander felt a slight draft and finally realized that he was in his underwear. He considered going to his bedroom to put on more layers of clothing, but then shrugged and collapsed into an armchair. Vampires who showed up unexpectedly at his door would just have to unlive with Xander’s boxer shorts. At least he wasn’t wearing the pair with Homer Simpson.

“Okay,” Xander said, finally marshaling his brain into action. “Let’s start with how.”

“How what?” Spike asked innocently.

“How are you not dust under Sunnydale?”

“Long story. Not very interesting.”

“Cliff’s Notes version, then.”

Spike took a sip of his beer. “Got resurrected. Happens all the time, yeah? Angel and Darla, Buffy…hell, who does stay dead anymore?”

“Anya.”

Spike made a pinched face. “Yeah. Heard about that. She was quite a girl.” He lifted his bottle in a toast that seemed totally serious, then drank some more. “After I got my body back, I ended up mixed in with some nasty business in LA.  Angel and his lot.”

“That thing with the lawyers?” Xander had heard a few things about that—no details, just more with the evil and destruction.

Spike nodded.

“So—wait. How come nobody knows you’re alivish? Except Angel, I guess. I mean, Buffy doesn’t know, does she?”

“No,” Spike answered with a frown. “Nearly contacted her once, but mostly just to keep her away from Peaches. And the Immortal.”

Xander made a face too. He hadn’t liked the Immortal at all, and not only because the guy’s morals were ambiguous at best. The Immortal was also disgustingly handsome and devilishly charming, and every time he saw Xander he’d lift his eyebrows and give Xander this smirk, like he knew some deep dark secret about Xander. “So now’s the part when we come to the why. Spike, what the hell are you doing here?”

Spike didn’t answer him at first. In fact, if Xander hadn’t known better he’d have thought the vampire looked kind of embarrassed. Spike peeled a strip of label off the bottle, wadded it into a tiny ball, then didn’t seem to know what to do with it. He ended up stuffing the bit of paper into his duster pocket. “Still keep in touch with the poof,” he said at last. “Now and then. He helped me find you. Has a few useful contacts from his evil CEO days, I expect.”

Xander blinked at him. “You went looking for me?”

Spike didn’t make eye contact. Instead, he abruptly stood and wandered around the room, examining the photos Xander had hung on the wall and the knickknacks that were scattered here and there. He picked up a small clay object. “Dakakari burial sculpture, innit? What animal’s it meant to be?”

“Hyena,” Xander replied shortly.

Next, Spike inspected a decorated ceramic vase. “Peru?”

“Yeah. Incan wannabe.”

“Picked up these bits and bobs as you traveled?” Spike poked at a lion’s head made of frosted white glass.

“Yeah, they’re souvenirs. But Spike, why—”

“Made quite a nice life for yourself, haven’t you? Seen the world and now you’ve settled down in your little house.” He gestured at a photo of Xander and a bunch of guys from work, all smiling broadly as Xander broke ground at the first project he’d supervised. “Making a bit of dosh. Plenty of friends.”

“So?”

Spike walked across the room again and stood facing the unlit fireplace. “Got a girl?”

“I date. Nobody special at the moment, but why do you care?”

Spike turned around and for the first time in several minutes, looked him straight in the eye. “You’re happy.”

“I am. Is that a crime?”

Spike shook his head. “No, it’s…. You’ve no regrets?”

“Of course I have regrets! I mean, who doesn’t? And you know I’ve done some really stupid things. But they don’t keep me up at night. I’m satisfied with how things turned out.”

Spike’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”

“So will you please explain—”

“Nothing to explain. Made a mistake, is all.” Spike set his half-empty bottle on a shelf and crossed the room again. He pulled something out of his duster pocket and set it on the couch, then continued towards the front door.

Xander scrambled to his feet and ran after him. “Wait! I don’t understand— You can’t just show up all corporeal again and give me the third degree about my personal life and then leave.”

Spike already had the door open. “Been holding onto something for a few years. Had it in my pocket when I burned; I reckoned at the time I might use it for summat. Blackmail, maybe. Dunno. Wasn’t really thinking straight then.” He gave a strange laugh. “My duster was resurrected along with me and I kept that thing. Read it now and then when…well, when I need a bit of boost, I expect.” He sighed. “I’ve been alone for ages. I don’t do alone very well. I thought perhaps I might— But I was only being a fool.”

Spike stepped outside and turned to look at Xander. “Have a good life, Xander Harris.” And then he was gone; just a swirl of his duster and he disappeared into the night.

As confused as he’d ever been, Xander stood in the doorway for several minutes. But Spike didn’t reappear, and finally Xander shut the door and locked it. He was going to go back to bed, but then he remembered the mystery item on his couch. So he wandered back into the living room, rubbing his head as he walked. The headache was coming back and would probably make up for lost time.

He didn’t recognize the thing at first. It just looked like a piece of cardboard. But then he realized one edge was spiral bound and he flipped it over. What he saw made him almost faint for the second time that night.

Spike had left a notebook with a familiar yellow cover.

[Chapter Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/272031.html)


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** The Seduction of Dreams  
 **Chapter:** 3 of 3  
 **Characters:** Spike/Xander  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Xander has some confusing dreams.  
 **Author's Notes:** This fic is complete and I'll post daily.  Based on the [](http://angst-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://angst-bingo.livejournal.com/)  prompt "diaries and journals." Many thanks to my ever-wonderful beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) , who also came up with the title!  
[  
Previous chapters](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=The%20Seduction%20of%20Dreams&filter=all)

 **Part Three: Seven Days Later**

 

Chuck’s niece Melissa was cute, with bouncy brunette curls, a sprinkle of freckles across her pert little nose, and twinkling eyes that were somewhere between blue and green. And as Chuck had promised, she was also very nice, pretending to be fascinated with Xander’s extremely unfascinating life, and laughing at his jokes, and even admitting to an interest in science fiction. “I’m just a big old geek,” she’d said, smiling prettily, her laugh like tinkling bells. And yes, she was smart, but in a witty and sort of self-deprecating way, not at all a show-off or a snob.

Xander should have been smitten.

Maybe he would have been, had he met Melissa only a few days earlier. But then Spike had shown up, bringing Xander’s old dream journal with him, and Xander couldn’t stop thinking about the vampire.

So Xander had been polite during the barbeque and he’d even enjoyed himself. But she must have been able to tell his thoughts were elsewhere, because when the steak and chocolate cake were all consumed and she walked him to his car, she placed a delicate hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for being such a good sport about Aunt Laura’s matchmaking,” she said.

“Um….” Xander stuttered, blushing despite himself.

“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry.”

“No, it’s…. You’re great, really. Way out of my league actually. I mean….”

“I’m not your type,” she said, still smiling. 

“No! You are totally my type. Normally I’d have spent the afternoon trying to be charming and instead making a complete idiot of myself. It’s just…. The other day I got a surprise, sort of a blast from my past, and ever since I’ve been…distracted. I’m sorry,” he added, very sincerely.

But she continued to look sweet and understanding, and _Christ_ , he knew he’d probably be kicking himself later over blowing his chance with her. “No problem,” she said. She leaned up and gave him a chaste peck on the cheek. “I hope you get everything sorted out okay.”

“Thanks,” he answered lamely. And then he’d driven home and brooded.

And brooding is what he’d mostly done over the next several days. During working hours he was busy enough to keep his head filled with costs and measurements and lists of materials, But back at home, the TV wasn’t enough to distract him from the notebook he’d tucked away in a dresser drawer—he’d meant to toss the damn thing but couldn’t quite manage it—or from thoughts of the messenger who’d brought the notebook to him.

As Xander sat on his couch or tossed and turned in his bed, he pictured Spike finding the journal and reading it, and Xander’s face turned fiery with shame. But Spike had never mentioned the journal at the time, which seemed strange. Even loco as the vampire had been, Xander would have expected him to jump at the chance to humiliate Xander—at least privately, but probably even more so in front of Buffy and the rest.  And Spike had actually kept the journal, hanging on to the cursed thing through fire and rebirth, dragging it around for several more years, even reading it now and then.  That was…beyond weird, really.

But what puzzled Xander the most, what made him burn his dinner and lie awake into the wee hours of the morning, was the question of why Spike had sought him out. What had Spike meant by his cryptic comments in Xander’s living room?

Xander tried to forget the entire incident, he really did. But Thursday night, for the first time in seven years, he dreamed of Spike. In the dream, Spike was naked and magnificent, but he was leaning back against a wooden cross as though crucified, his arms outspread on the crosspiece and little wisps of smoke rising from his flesh. The cross had been erected in a version of Xander’s old basement, a version in which his parents' house above was gone, leaving only twinkling stars overhead. Duplicates of his old orange chair were arranged against one wall, and on each one someone was seated: Anya, Buffy, Faith, Willow, Giles, Joyce Summers, Melissa, even Principal Snyder. Xander was naked in the dream, and he tried to cover his groin with his hands but discovered he couldn’t move. He was even more embarrassed to discern that his cock was fully erect.

“Still don’t know what you want, do you?” Spike said to him.

“I don’t want this!” Xander yelled back.

Spike looked pointedly at Xander’s crotch. “Looks otherwise, pet.”

“I don’t…. You just show up at my door, out of the blue, and you…you _confuse_ me, and—”

“But this is your dream, innit? ’T’s not even me.”

“He’s right,” Willow chimed in from her chair. “He’s just a manifestation of your subconscious. We all are.”

“But I don’t—”

“You don’t what, Xander?” Spike pried himself away from the cross and prowled a few steps closer.

Xander took a step back. “I’m not attracted to you.”

“Of course you are,” Spike said with a smirk. “You fancy a partner who’s smaller than you—makes you feel like a man, yeah? But you want your partner to be stronger than you, more experienced. Perhaps a bit…bad.” He shrugged. “That’s me.”

Xander had to admit Spike had a point. Although he’d dated a few normal girls in recent years—wholesome, non-demony types much like Melissa—he hadn’t fallen for any of them. Hadn’t wanted them, not the way he once wanted Buffy and Faith and Anya, or any of the various not-so-human women who had made his libido thrum back in Sunnydale. But still, Xander crossed his arms on his chest. “But you’re a…. You’re _male_.”

Spike glanced down at his own impressively erect cock and smiled. “Not much question about that.”

“I’m not gay.”

“’T’s just a label, berk. Doesn’t mean anything. You fancy someone or you don’t, and the packaging doesn’t matter. You fancy me.”

“I do not! I hate you! I’ve always hated you.”

Spike shrugged. “Hate. Love. Not as much difference as you think, ducks. ’T’s passion one way or the other. I have everything you want in a partner—everything you _really_ want. And you know I don’t love halfway, do I? With me you get what you’ve been craving your entire life: true devotion.” He ran a slow hand down his chest. “The pretty package is a bonus, I reckon.”

Xander took another step backwards and found himself against a damp concrete wall.

Willow stood and set a hand on Spike’s bare shoulder. “You might as well stop denying it, Xander. Seven years is enough.”

Xander swallowed a few times and was chagrined when his stupid hard-on didn’t fade a bit. “But…but…. Okay. Even if maybe I did sort of have a thing for the Bleached Wonder—and I’m not admitting anything here; this is all hypothetical—so what? He can’t stand me.”

“Yeah, right,” said Buffy, suddenly inserting herself into the conversation. “People who can’t stand other people always hold on to their secret journals for years, and then go way out of their way to hunt them down.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Giles said.

“Yeah,” agreed Anya. “Don’t blow this one too, Harris. Even if you live a thousand years you don’t get many second chances.”

Spike came closer and Xander pressed himself tightly against the wall, nowhere to escape. Spike laid his hands on Xander’s shoulders—hands like ice, even in a dream—and tilted his head and blinked at him, blue eyes that might as well have been knife blades. “Say it isn’t so, pet. Try to fool yourself some more. Can you do it?” He moved forward a few inches, so that now his entire body touched Xander’s, chest to chest, cock to cock. “Can you?” he purred, and thrust his hips just a little.

“Shit,” Xander said, and he came.

 

***

 

Xander hadn’t been to California since Sunnydale collapsed. Nothing left for him there but bad memories and a big hole in the ground. When he’d still been trying his Scoobiest best—pretending he wasn’t missing an eye and that he didn’t occasionally consider smashing his brains out against the nearest brick wall just to stop the goddamn pain—he’d been sent on Missions. He always thought of them like that, Missions with a capital M, even though he knew it was a sort of  Andrewish thing to do. He had scoped out possible baby Slayer sightings and reconned potentially demonic activity. He had traveled a lot, to places he never would have been able to find on a map and could barely pronounce, places where the street signs were word salad if he could make out the alphabet at all, where he was served meals that would have horrified a Ketnash demon. But he had never returned to California.

It didn’t look much different than he’d remembered. LA was still smoggy and tacky and full of impossible traffic. The weather was still that uniform pleasantish temperature that made you lose track completely of which month it was.

Apparently Angel resided in a big, somewhat decrepit hotel. Willow had given Xander the address and had been very, very good about respecting his pleas not to ask why he needed it. He owed her big. Xander parked his rental car in front of the past-its-prime heap, automatically making a mental estimate as to the time and money it would take to bring the place up to par, and whether the historical value would be worth the heaps of cash and inevitable problems. Then he opened the unlocked front door and stepped into the lobby.

The décor was nice and in better shape than he’d expected, but nobody stood behind the desk and everything was slightly dusty. “Hello?” he called.

Footsteps sounded nearby, big heavy footsteps. A door he hadn’t noticed opened and Angel stepped out, his head bent over the big book in his hands. “Yeah, we’re not open, unless you want some investigative work done and then—” He stopped abruptly as he finally looked up and saw Xander. “Oh,” he said.

“Angel.”

Angel shut the book with a loud clap. “What— Why are you here? It’s not…Buffy….”

Xander sighed. “Buffy’s fine, and even if she wasn’t, I wouldn’t exactly drag myself across the country just to let you know. That ship has sailed, Deadboy.” Probably antagonizing the big vampire wasn’t the wisest course of action, but Xander couldn’t help it.

Angel looked pained. Well, Angel usually looked pained, but now more than usual. But he didn’t grow fangs or anything, so that was good. Instead, he sighed heavily and set his book on the reception desk. “What do you want, Xander?”

“Did you help Spike find me?”

Angel winced at Spike’s name. “Yeah. Look, I’m sorry, but he said it was important and he wouldn’t shut up about it, and the little prick can be so stubborn about things—”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why was he looking for me?”

“How the hell do I know?” Angel answered. “He promised he wasn’t going to kill you and…. Who knows why he does any of the things he does? I swear, sometimes he’s nuttier than Drusilla ever was.”

Xander nodded his agreement and tried to think of a subtle way to formulate his next question. “Look, do you know—”

“I don’t know anything. If you wanna know what was going on in his head why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“Um, okay,” Xander said, as if that hadn’t been pretty much the plan all along.

Angel pointed at a stairway. “He’s in 218.”

“He’s _here_? Spike’s here?”

“Like I said, 218. If you can find him under all the empty whiskey bottles.”

This had _not_ been a part of the plan. Xander had asked Chuck for a week off and he’d booked a flight to LAX, and he’d intended to see if Angel would cough up Spike’s whereabouts. And then Xander had meant to go back home and…and think about the whole thing for a while. Decide what his next steps should be. If any.

Now he considered exiting the hotel, hightailing it for his rented Ford and heading straight back to the airport. Except not only would he look like a complete idiot in front of Angel—admittedly, not for the first time—but Spike would probably find out Xander had been there and left, and that would put the final nail in the coffin of whatever…of whatever there might be between them. Not that the whatever was all that lively to begin with.

“Don’t be such a wuss,” Xander whispered.

Angel squinted impatiently at him. “Huh? Why am I a wuss?”

Oops—vampire hearing. “You’re not,” replied Xander. Then he rubbed his forehead. No sign of a headache, although for once he was kind of hoping for one because then he’d have a valid excuse to leave. He squared his shoulders. “Two eighteen, huh?”

“Just follow the sound of the TV. He’s been blaring some soap opera channel nonstop since he got here.”

Xander nodded at Angel. He walked past the vampire, very aware of the eyes focused on him in confusion, and made his way across the patterned floor to the stairs.

“What the hell is up with you two?” Angel asked from behind him.

“I don’t…. Nothing. I don’t know.” That was the best answer Xander could give as his foot rose for the first step. Vaguely he wondered whether Angel was going to try and call someone—Buffy? Willow? Giles? Maybe all three of them—and interrogate them about Xander’s presence. Those would be interesting conversations, he thought. Because first Angel would have to admit that Spike existed, and Xander wasn’t sure how Buffy would take that. Yeah, sure, that ship had sailed. But she’d been thinking all these years that the ship had actually sunk, and now to discover that in fact it was still floating around, looking for Xander— As he reached the second floor landing, Xander decided that the metaphor had pretty much reached its limits.

 _“Pero Gustavo, no quieres ver al bebe de mi abuela?”_

 _“No, no quiero. No es mi bebe. Es el ni_ _ñ_ _o de mi hermano.”_

 _“Tu hermano! Tu hermano es mi amante!”_

Xander’s hand hovered in front of the door. He could still back out, he told himself. Pretend none of this ever happened. Tell himself he had no interest at all in drunken, telenovela-watching demons.

He knocked.

When there was no answer, he waited a moment and then knocked again, louder.

“Bugger off, pillock!” came the slurred voice from inside. “Fight your bloody battles yourself.”

Xander paused, decided that Angel was probably the pillock in question, and put his hand on the doorknob. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Spike was sprawled on an unmade bed, his head and shoulders propped on several pillows. He wore only a pair of tight jeans and his hair was sticking up in all directions, like he hadn’t combed it in days. As Angel had promised, empty bottles were scattered throughout the room—some in jagged pieces—and the place smelled like a distillery. Spike’s eyes were trained on the television that had been set atop a dresser with a missing drawer. “Piss off, wanker,” he said, but without much energy and without looking away from the screen.

Xander just waited silently in the doorway.

After what seemed like several eternities, Spike finally looked his way. He had a snarl half-formed on his face, but when he saw it was Xander, his eyes went wide and his mouth fell open.

“Hi,” Xander said, really lamely, after another long silence.

“What—what—?”

“You think you’re the only guy who gets to show up unexpectedly?”

Spike swallowed, loudly enough that Xander could hear him. Then he reached for the remote on the nightstand and clicked off the TV. He blinked a few times, opened and closed his mouth, then took a deep breath and stuck out his chin. “Why?”

“No. You still owe me a why first.”

“I was….” Spike looked away. “Wanted to return what was yours.”

“Yeah, ’cause you’ve always been so particular about respecting other people’s personal property.”

Spike’s jaw worked for a moment. “I’ve a soul now.”

“Yeah, I know.” Cautiously, Xander entered the room, stopping a few feet from the bed. “But plenty of people with souls steal stuff.”

“I didn’t bloody steal—”

“I know! I mean, you kinda did, but not exactly and…and I didn’t come here to make a citizen’s arrest.”

“Why did you come here then?”

Xander chewed at his lip. “I wanted…I dunno. Answers.”

“Not a sodding oracle,” Spike muttered. But he suddenly looked more tired than angry. Exhausted, really, and kind of small and vulnerable and Xander was aware that these were stupid thoughts but he thought them anyway. And then he moved even closer, and sat on the empty side of the mattress.

Spike flinched slightly, as if he expected Xander to hit him, but then relaxed.

They both sat there. Spike stared at the drapery-covered window and Xander stared at the little pile of books on the floor. He couldn’t quite make out the titles, but the books were worn, and Xander found himself curious about what Spike might have been reading.

“Did you truly have that dream?” Spike finally asked in a near-whisper. “Wasn’t something you made up to…to take the piss?”

“That would be a strange and elaborate way to annoy you, Spike.”

Spike nodded, still not meeting his eye.

Xander fidgeted, picking at a cuticle, tracing a finger over the blue paths of veins on the back of one hand. “Why’d you keep the journal, Spike? After Sunnydale, I mean. And why’d you.... Last week. Why’d you come to my house?”

“Nobody ever wrote about me,” Spike answered quietly. “I wrote about them. Love poems. Rubbish. And even when I stopped writing them, I couldn’t help but think them: stupid rhymes in my head about black curls or green eyes or…. Well, nobody wanted to hear the poems. Don’t blame them. But sometimes I imagined it would be nice if someone wrote about me. I reckoned I’d want to read those words. And then I did.”

“It wasn’t a poem.”

“Doesn’t matter. It was about…about want, and need, and…and that’s what poetry’s about as well. And dreams, they’re a sort of poem too, all symbolism and whatnot.”

Xander’s hands were restless. They moved to a fold in the dark green blanket, pinching it and then pressing it flat. “So it didn’t squick you that I had sex dreams about you.”

Spike actually looked at him. “Dreams? Plural?”

Xander blushed. “Um…yeah. I only wrote down one, but there were…there were sort of a lot. Those last few months in Sunnydale.”

“But not since?” Spike asked, his head cocked to one side.

“No. I mean, as far as I knew you were dust, and…and I mostly tried to forget a lot of what happened back then.” And then maybe Xander was possessed—again—perhaps by a wandering honesty spirit or something, because he added, “Until the other day.”

An odd look flickered over Spike’s face. “You dreamt again?”

“Yeah. After you visited, and…. Spike, why did you come to my house? And then leave? Will you just tell me straight?”

“Right then. I came to see if perhaps…perhaps you’d thought of me over the years. Perhaps you wished you’d been able to enact your dream when you were awake. But then I saw you were happy. Content. And I can’t….” He gave a sad smile. “I can scratch an itch or keep someone safe from her own follies. But I don’t expect I’ve ever made anyone happy.”

Xander couldn’t help but respond with a rueful chuckle. “Me either. I build stuff, fix stuff that breaks. I’m support guy.”

Spike nodded again, and the bed seemed suddenly very wide, the space between them too big. Xander swung his legs up onto the mattress and scooted over until he was almost but not quite touching Spike. “Maybe—” he began.

But Spike stopped him by shaking his head. “You want to fuck me, is that it? Bend me over the nearest piece of furniture and plow into my tight arse, see if blokes really do it for you? Use me as a test before you move on to…to real people. Maybe even make me bleed a bit, guilt-free, because I’m only a demon. Fine.” He started to unbutton his jeans.

Xander stopped him by grabbing his wrists, then holding tight. “No.” He struggled for the right words. “Honestly? I don’t know what I want. Almost thirty years old and I don’t think I’ve _ever_ known what I wanted. But my life? It’s good. I like my job and my friends and…. Something’s missing.” He loosened his grip on Spike’s wrists but didn’t let go.

“Fuck me and see, then. Get it over with,” Spike said, but despite the rough words his voice was thin, like that of someone who had been lost for a very long time.

Xander moved his hand slightly so his fingers were intertwined with Spike’s. Spike didn’t pull away, and his skin wasn’t nearly as cold as Xander had expected. “No. Quick fucks I can get anywhere. I know that’s not what I want.”

“Then…?”

“You’re drunk, Spike, and I’m tired and a little jet-lagged and this is all…new. Can we go slowly? See if things feel right?”

Spike’s expression softened and his muscles relaxed. He nodded.

Xander leaned over and kissed him. It was a very nice kiss. Not earth-shattering or toe-curling, because maybe that would take more practice. But soft and sweet and…promising, Xander thought. Spike tasted like Jack Daniels, and Xander didn’t mind. When they pulled apart, Spike started to smile and turned his face away as if he were afraid for Xander to see.

“Well, that was a good beginning, I think,” Xander said.

“Neither of us burst into flame.”

Xander kicked off his shoes. They landed with a thump and a clatter among the discarded bottles. And then by unspoken agreement, he and Spike rearranged the pillows and closed the small space between them, lying on their sides with Spike’s back spooned against Xander’s front. Spike’s skin was very smooth, the muscles beneath it solid and comforting. And his hair was soft, tickling Xander’s nose.

Spike reached over and turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. “We’ll figure our next step after a kip?” he asked.

“Kipping then figuring. Sounds like a plan.”

Xander could feel Spike let out a long, slow breath.

“Good night, Spike.”

“Night. And Xander? Sweet dreams.”

 

 

 _~~~fin~~~_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback is always cherished.


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